


easy

by calciseptine



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Makin’ sure you’re with me,” Stan replies. “You have that look on your face.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [aimydraws](http://aimydraws.tumblr.com) ([this amazing mini-comic](http://lolisin.tumblr.com>lolisin</a>\)%20for%20<a%20href=). there is really nothing i love more than ford pushing himself while stan lies there. also riding. apparently i can't get enough of that either. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Ford feels a powerful and consuming fire beneath the veneer of his skin. He knows, deep down to his bones, that it is not the kind of fire that can be easily quenched; still he tries, ever stubborn.

"Christ, Sixer," Stan says below him. "You can— _fuck_ —slow _down_ , wouldja?"

Ford glances at Stan. He is spread across their bed, red-faced, his age-pale hair sticking to the planes of his forehead and cheeks. He is as handsome as he has always been and it hurts to look at him. Ford squeezes his eyes shut and buries the regret of their time apart—of their lives diverged—and pushes his fingers further. It is too much too fast, but the pain helps Ford ground himself in the present.

"Sixer," Stan croaks. His hands are big on Ford's trembling thighs, an anchor. "It's not a race, yeah? Slow down and—"

"Shut up," Ford snaps. "Stanley, I need—"

Ford's fingers find his prostate and his words pinch into a high and helpless whine. Stan swears.

"Goddamn." His voice is low and husky. "You're so fuckin' gorgeous."

Stan's praise stokes the flame that burns in Ford. It would be irritating if it did not make Ford so distractingly warm; young or old, together or apart, Stan has always had the unique ability to drive Ford crazy.

"Quiet," Ford demands, unable to focus on the spread of his fingers when Stan speaks. "You— _quiet_."

Stan obeys. His silence, however, comes at an unexpected price; Ford can hear the deepness of Stan's breath, the whisper of Stan's limbs against their sheets, and the rasp of Stan's dry mouth when he swallows. Ford imagines he can even hear the draining rush of Stan's blood in his veins and the hammering thunder of Stan's heart against his sternum.

_No_ , Ford thinks as he reaches further, his arm twisted and his wrist bent unnaturally as he works up to the second knuckle. _No human has hearing that sharp. Don't be—_

Stan pinches him.

"Ouch!" Ford exclaims as a sudden pain shoots through the haze of his brain, bright and undeniable. "Stanley—!"

"Makin' sure you're with me," Stan replies. He rubs a callused finger over Ford's tender nipple in vague apology. "You have that look on your face."

Stan attempts to imitate Ford's face and is unsuccessful.

"I have no idea what emotion you are trying to convey," Ford teases. Stan's face falls back into a more natural scowl.

"Fuck off," Stan says. Then, after a moment of deliberation, he elaborates, "You used to—when we were kids—you made this face when you couldn't quite figure out a problem." Stan pauses and grins a little, a flash of sardonicism on his features. "Well, you always figured them out, but sometimes the problem was… too hard, or had too many steps, or was tedious, then you just… made this face. Because you hated leavin' it undone, I guess, or were too stubborn to throw in the towel. And I—this ain't like that for you, is it?"

The slant of Stan's mouth is unsure and the curve of his normally strong and capable shoulders is timid. Ford quivers at the sight and says, "No," as gently and as firmly as he can. "No, Stanley, never. I am just—I'm being—selfish."

Then Ford removes his fingers and sits down on Stan's cock.

In truth, it has been years since Ford has had more than the precise stimulation of a single finger or slender toy inside him. Masturbation had not been a priority while he traveled the multiverse; the mental rigors of scientific discovery had taken precedence over the carnal desires of his body. All physical needs—hunger and thirst, sleepiness and lustfulness—had been dealt with adequately and perfunctorily. Stan had been the last being Ford was intimate with, and that had been a lifetime ago. He has forgotten just how big Stan feels inside him.

"Ford," Stan gasps as Ford sinks. "Easy—"

"No." Ford shakes his head. "No."

All the air leaves Ford's lungs as he bottoms out, his pelvis resting firmly in the cradle of Stan's lap. His head rolls back and he blinks up at the darkness of the ceiling, unable to orient himself. Ford simply cannot _think_. He is only aware of the persistent fullness and the edge of pain that skirts on the periphery of his awareness.

"Oh," Ford understates as he rocks his hips. Every minuscule movement feels cataclysmic. " _Oh._ "

It is impossible for Ford to do much more than grind down onto Stan. In the lonely void of space, Ford had sometimes thought of his and Stan's adolescent closeness; mostly, he had thought of their emotional closeness, but on the occasion Ford reminisced about the physical, he had convinced himself that the intensity was magnified by his nostalgia. Now, Ford knows that his memories—as rosily cherished and carefully worn as they were—are paler than reality.

"With me, Sixer?" Stan murmurs as he curls his broad hands around Ford's wrists. Ford shudders at the sensation; his fingers dig into the meaty curve of Stan's chest. "You look—lost."

"I feel lost," Ford whispers. His tongue is ungainly inside his mouth. His eyelids flutter. "I feel…"

The fullness does not abate yet, somehow, it becomes more bearable, and the sharp pain of being stretched dulls to a sore ache. Ford lifts his hips experimentally—wonderingly—and cries out when Stan bucks up.

"Fuck, Sixer, I didn't mean—"

"No—Stanley—it was—"

Ford does it again and drops down. Stan's cock—thick and blunt—pushes directly against his prostate. The pressure is neither good nor bad; it merely and overwhelming is.

"Oh." Stan's grip tightens around Ford's wrists. A desperate whine claws its way out of Ford's throat. "Guess you still like it like that, huh?"

They find their rhythm quickly, an ease that is half instinct and half practice. Ford rises and falls; Stan meets him halfway. Stan keeps Ford's wrists shackled but it is a welcome and grounding gesture, and Ford makes no attempt to free himself.

"Gettin' close," Stan warns as he rolls his hips in a sinful semi-circle. "I need to—"

Ford's thighs tighten around Stan's body, the unforgiving bone of his patallae wedged into the soft curves of Stan's waist. Stan's eyes widen in surprise.

"Like this," Ford says. The strangled words border a plea. "Like this, Stan."

Stan's surprised expression gentles and becomes infinitely fond. He smiles, exposing the edges of his teeth, and releases one of Ford's wrists. Then he reaches up and fits his thumb against the cleft of Ford's chin.

"Don't beg, Sixer." The words are teasing but the warmth of Stan's tone belies them. "It's not like I'm gonna say no."

This is how Ford comes: unexpectedly and swiftly, pushed to the edge by his brother in every aspect. He stiffens as the sensation arrests his heart and his lungs—aware of how Stan chokes, tenses—yet when he opens his mouth to whimper—to whine—to _wail_ —there is no air inside him. There is only sweetness, 

and Stan.


End file.
